


red-blooded thing

by meowcosm



Category: Dappervolk (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Other, Pre-Relationship, Rivals to Lovers, a little bit of ooc fluffy domesticity, even if they can't stop being kind of rude to each other, making tea, mentioned Marvel (Dappervolk), mentioned Trout (Dappervolk)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25469827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: It's not that Irin dislikes Magdalene. Sure, she's the person she is, and she does the things that she does. But she's not- bad, per se....They're making progress on it, at least.And it's just a matter of politeness, letting her take shelter in their house during such a horrid storm.
Relationships: Irin/Magdalene
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	red-blooded thing

**Author's Note:**

> 7th fic in the tag let's gooooooo

The sky is never truly clear in 3’s Forest.

Even before the influence of the witches began to corrupt the space, thick canopy would blot out much of both the sunlight and the rain. Granted; the intrusion of the glowing mushrooms and choking vines has not helped one bit, and if Irin was granted some way to clear them out, even just for a moment, they’d jump at it without a second thought. But it is inevitable; the way the forest  _ is _ , down to its deepest heart. Self-contained, a thicket of lush greenery isolated on every side by grassy expanse. 

This, however, does not mean that it is immune to the turbulence of the skies above. Sufficient rainfall is prone to muddying the ground, turning the unpaved passages through the woods where the surrounding trees have been removed into dangerous, slippery things. It’s a shame when it happens, Irin thinks. It means that Trout can’t go far from his home, prone as he is to tripping- or being tripped upon. The sprites hide inside their enclaves, vulnerable as they are to even normal drops of rain coming down upon them; similarly, the bees and other flying insects cloister themself away. 

They’ll come back- Irin knows that. But their absence instills a sense of loneliness, as if the character of the land was being stripped out from underneath it. Waiting out the rainstorms becomes a matter of endurance, and Irin could never testify that they’re good at playing the long game. 

It’s only when Magdalene shows up at their doorstep that they realize, all at once, that they’ve never seen how  _ she _ deals with the inclement weather.

“Irin.”

It’s the first word out of her mouth when he meets her at the doorstep, rain-soaked cloak pulled taut over her shivering frame. It’s tinged with impatience, and for one moment, Irin wonders if they’ve forgotten something important they’d agreed to attend. 

Their fears are assuaged, however, by the next quick, muttered phrase that comes from Magdalene’s hurried mouth.

  
“I need to come in. Right now.”

The audacity of her command stuns Irin. The few seconds that it takes them to compose themself once more, and think of any answer suitable for Magdalene’s insistence, are all that Magdalene needs to interpret their silence as a yes- and to barge in, lanterns rattling loudly behind them as Irin half-ducks, half-floats to the side. Still stunned, Irin can’t help but  _ let _ Magdalene take her place on the circular carpet of moss which composes the floor of their house, her weight coming down onto the floor with a soft rustling. 

It’s the sound that reminds Irin that they  _ really _ should be somewhat more indignant about everything that’s just transpired. 

“-Magdalene,” Irin splutters, still trying to compose themself. “Did I give you permission to do this?”

They’ve been on better terms since the World-Hopper had them negotiate their differences- an affair which had gone much better than Irin had assumed it would. Still, if they’ve had some conversation regarding Magdalene being able to utilize their home whenever they felt like it, Irin certainly can’t say that they remember it. 

Regardless of the hostility in Irin’s voice, Magdalene matches their insistent complaint with a long, satisfied sigh. In the shifting of her body, Irin catches sight of just how dreadfully soaked she is- regardless of her overclothes, the brown of her fur is darkened and water-laden, dripping onto the floor. Which, all things considered, makes Irin quite thankful that the moss below their feet isn’t likely to mind that very much.

“I’m sorry, Irin.” Magdalene begins, though only after finishing a long ( _ and rather enjoyable sounding _ , Irin thinks,  _ though that’s hardly the point _ ) and pronounced stretch. Which, Irin notices, causes more water to drip onto the flooring beneath the two of them. “You’ve probably noticed, but there’s a dreadful storm outside.”

Irin  _ has _ noticed. They’re not sure why it’s relevant, however.

“Yes. Does that have something to do with you forcing your way into my home…?”

“I hope you’ll forgive me.” Magdalene states, plainly. “I couldn’t stay out there much longer, unfortunately.” 

Does Magdalene have an issue with the rain?

“Is something troubling you?” Irin inquires, trying to sound sympathetic- i _ f for no reason than to not make her more stubborn on the matter _ , they tell themself. 

“The storm is… No great friend of mine.” Magdalene whimpers, gear falling off of her lax shoulders. “I am covered with all this fur, you see.”

As if they didn’t know that- and as if they hadn’t looked before- Irin takes another glance at the soft mass which covers Magdalene’s body. How it looks different than it usually does, laden with the water which is still falling from the clouds outside. 

“I can see that.” Irin mumbles, cooperatively. 

“In the rain, it becomes very heavy. I cannot get around easily. Particularly if I am carrying my equipment with me.” As if to punctuate the point of her equipment’s burden, one unfilled lantern falls onto the floor, producing a metallic ring regardless of the soft cushioning beneath. Something about it tempts Irin to laugh, but they’re not sure that Magdalene finds the situation funny at all. 

Instead, they hum quietly, before breaking into speech once more.

“You’re here because of the weather, then.” They pause briefly, head cocked, before continuing. “I would have let you in, you know.”

“That’s kind of you, Irin.” 

At that moment, it strikes Irin how normal it feels for Magdalene to say their name. When they’d been at each other’s throats- perhaps them more than her, truthfully- to hear such a thing would have sent them reeling. Now, though- it’s different.

“Truthfully, I’m unsure why I pushed you aside. I do not like to think of myself as the sort to behave so impulsively.” 

“Hm. Admittedly, it would have been nicer if you had refrained from doing so. But- you’re here now.” 

A while ago, Irin would have ushered Magdalene away before she could have ever gotten comfortable. That instinct, too, seems to have dissipated. 

“Would you like for me to prepare you a drink?” 

  
“Ah.” Magdalene gives a heady chuckle at the question. “Because I’m covered in water. I understand.”

“You  _ mis _ understand, actually. I am trying to be hospitable, but if you are uninterested-”

“No, no,” Magdalene insists, slight panic on her face, “that would be lovely of you, Irin. I assumed that you were joking with me.”

“I would not do so.” Irin reiterates, before taking to their wings and hovering, passing Magdalene as they skirt the circular vicinity of the entrance to their home. 

It’s a humble venue, with very little of its structure demarcated- Irin knows that they know where everything is, and so few people pass through that labels for the kitchen and the sleeping area are unnecessary. They hope that Magdalene can intuit that they’re heading to fetch the glassware, rather than some weapon to drive her away.

The engraved wooden door shuts behind Irin as they enter the sparse room, the consequence of both age and the drafts which seemed to perpetually work their way into the house. Deciding that to reopen it was unnecessary, Irin instead worked their way over to one of the hanging cupboards located on the far side of the room. As they take hold of the brass handle, a cloud of dust billows away from the surface- Irin coughs at the ragged sensation of breathing it in, feeling distinctively displeased by the fact they’ve failed to expect such a thing. Once stocked with its rare and indulgent teas by one of Irin’s siblings, now-departed, Irin knows that it hasn’t been opened for months. Its contents remain magically preserved, yet still untouched, left to linger until the arrival of guests.

Irin knows they don’t get many. 

The careful application of a matchstick to an already-stocked fireplace sets it alight, and Irin takes the wait for it to heat the pot hovering above sufficiently as their chance to fetch the water and pick the tea. The water is easy enough- a large barrel of it sits underneath one of the countertops, pumped from the well only an hour earlier- and with the help of a carved-wood bowl, they’re able to pour the liquid from one vessel to the other. A diffuser, clean from being long unused, sits conveniently beside the fireplace- Irin attaches the small ceramic hedgehog to the pot, before returning to the cupboard they left hanging open. 

Inside, a variety of teas are stocked, boxes piled up on each other to the height of the cupboard itself. Some of the labels are obscured by their storage, so Irin assesses all of the visible options instead; doubting the idea that they’ll have to look too far for something suitable. They’re not really familiar with Magdalene’s preferences in regards to food or drinks- nor, they remind themself, are they familiar enough with the workings of non-magical creatures to take a good guess. Still, Irin supposes that as long as it’s not poisonous, whatever he offers will fulfill its purpose- a gesture of kindness. 

At first, Irin’s eyes dart to the top of the cupboard. Reaching isn’t a problem, not with wings, but collapsing the stacked boxes will inevitably prove a nuisance. 

_ For that reason, it’s best to assess what’s most easily available _ , Irin tells themself. 

The first row contains an array of small boxes; some paper; some wooden. The first two seem entirely unremarkable, with worn, open boxes, and the third lacks a label. The fourth; on the other hand, has a label, but it’s written in some language Irin isn’t familiar with. For all they know, it could be poisonous- so they leave it alone, moving down to the next row.

_ Another tea with its label in that strange language. Unlabelled- I made some of this before, and I hated it- Stamina Tea? _

At the sight of the unfamiliar, labelled box, Irin pauses. Unlike the other boxes, it seems to be constructed from ceramic, similar to the infuser hung on the edge of the heating pan. Gently, Irin runs their finger over its surface, finding it to be smooth and cool to the touch.

It feels familiar, but distant, like a treasured gift from a faraway land. Irin can’t say for certain where it reminds them of, but it could very easily be from somewhere industrial, where great stamina is required to work even greater machines for long periods of time. More to the point- it seems _ usable _ , at least. Better than something they know to be unpleasant, or something which could potentially hold more in store than either of them bargained for.

Bracing the tea above the row with one arm, Irin slides the ceramic box from the cupboard carefully, eventually placing the surprisingly heavy object on the countertop beneath them. Gently, they close the cupboard door, before floating back down onto the ground. It’s a room that Irin rarely spends much time in- guardian sprites are able to draw much of their energy from the surrounding forces of nature, and unlike their siblings, they don’t partake often in the indulgences of eating or drinking anything other than water. The wooden boards underneath don’t feel comforting- don’t feel like home- in the way the soft bedding-moss does, and Irin sighs at their inability to dig their feet deep into the comforting softness of the earth. 

Still, they persevere. The water in the pan is heating, now; a few stray bubbles escape the surface, partnered with a trail of steam that fogs the greenhouse windows. Irin can’t help but feel impatient, with Magdalene in the next room- at the thought of her remaining alone too long, a strange jolt of emotion passes through Irin’s body. 

_ Something like wanting to see her, or feeling sorry for her- she did look awfully unhappy back there, after all.  _

Hastily, and in an attempt to cease thinking any further about their feelings towards Magdalene, Irin slips the lid off of the tea container and withdraws a sachet. A series of runes are inscribed on the surface- quizzical things, but ones that Irin doesn’t have the time to investigate. Attempting to be slightly more careful with  _ this _ particular step, Irin tears away the corner of the sachet and pours the leaves into the opened side of the diffuser. A rich and earthen scent hits them as they do- one with the same vague familiarity as the box, leaving Irin wondering where they recognize it from. But the water’s heating doesn’t leave them long to contemplate the matter, each shred of the leaves contained within poured into the diffuser with calm efficacy. 

The task complete- at least, until the water boils- Irin takes the chance to stretch their back, exhaling and inhaling in rhythm. The scent, though masked somewhat by its surroundings and its distance, hits them again. Not unpleasantly, but with some subtle strangeness, an inkling of familiarity. Wrapped in their thoughts, Irin begins, on instinct, to float in the air once more. 

_ Perhaps Magdalene would know _ , they think.  _ Admittedly, it’s a long shot. But she’s much better travelled than I am. _

It’s when the pan whines that Irin breaks out of their contemplative trance, full attention brought back to the now-boiling tea. Wrapping both hands over the wooden handle, they bring the pan delicately away from the hooks hoisting it above the fire, placing it on an adjacent piece of metal designed to neither break nor warp when placed in contact with hot cookware. A few drops of the tea flow over the sides from the momentum; evaporating against the unbridled heat and forming steam on the windows, obscuring them even more than the rain already does. But Irin’s attention has already moved to the still-crackling fire- though the vent through which smoke escapes seems (to Irin’s comfort) devoid of any debris, they’re not willing to chance an accidental spreading of the flames. With efficient movement, they reach to the wooden bowl once more, and begin to diligently pour the contents of the barrel onto the roaring fire. Though the fire seems initially reluctant to dissipate, the humidity in the air serves to quash it, leaving only burnt logs and ashes behind. 

Silently, Irin makes a note to themself.  _ Once it’s drier; find some more firewood _ . 

Still floating, Irin moves gradually over to another cupboard; more worn with age and use. The handle isn’t stubborn, however; despite its rust. A single tug opens it up, albeit with a pronounced creak, revealing a wide array of mugs and other drinkware inside. Much of it; like the tea, collected by Irin’s siblings; enough that the small pang of loneliness passes through Irin’s body upon observing the vessels stacked upon one another. Hesitant to dwell on the feeling, however, Irin turns their gaze towards the rather formidable collection of cups in front of them, each one bearing some meaningful inscription or artisan’s signature. Despite their abundance, no two are the same, and for another brief moment, Irin entertains the curiosities that might be hiding in plain sight amongst their accumulated treasures- if only they could bear to sort through them. 

Again seeking to dismiss the sentiment, and the sentimentality, Irin dips their hand into the chaotically-organized pile. Once more facing the potential of a disaster should the choice compromise structural integrity, they start from the top, an easy place to reach. 

One piece catches their eye immediately- a ceramic vessel in the shape of a pumpkin, designed and lacquered with a care and attention which contrasted with its rustic theming. It does, Irin admits to themself, seem like the sort of thing which exists more for novelty than anything else. Still, they can’t help but be charmed by the simple charisma of the thing. Deciding to afford it no further contemplation, Irin digs their hand a little deeper, eventually prying the mug from its place between its neighbours. They pluck, too, the mug beneath the pumpkin-shaped thing, a simple thing embossed with subtle floral patterns. 

_ One for Magdalene, one for me. _

Careful to not drop the mugs, they float gently over to the counters once more, laying both ceramic pieces on the carved wood-and-stone blocks that comprise the simple kitchen space. A deft hand, with practiced motion, swipes a wooden ladle from the hook over the far counter it hangs on, and brings it towards the steaming vessel, switching between hands as it moves. Pushing past the steam-topped surface, the ladle dips deep into the pot, emerging once again with its basin filled to the brim with fire-hot tea that’s poured quickly into the more mundane of the drinking vessels. Irin repeats the process several times, up to the point where liquid comes up to the brim of each mug, almost on the verge of it spilling out and over onto the floor beneath. Still, their gentleness stifles any unnecessary motion. Most of the contents are kept- only a few dregs of liquid remain in the now-cooling pot- and Irin nods their head, satisfied. 

_ It’s been rather a while since I’ve done something like this _ , they contemplate, looking down at their reflection in the drink. Placed into a clearer, smaller, vessel, the exact murky brown of the poured tea is much more visible. It’s still thin, however, enough to reflect someone back at themselves. For a brief moment, Irin finds themself looking into the small recreation of the deep, observing the slight movement of each of their physical features with an eye keen to see what was not often spectated on. 

In the back of their mind, they note that the colour reminds them all too much of Magdalene’s fur, particularly in its water-laden state. 

Eventually, after brief contemplation surrounding the cutting of excess growth matter around the face, the creak of a still-opened cupboard disturbs Irin, and they load both mugs onto a wooden tray lying underneath one of the counters. It’s a simple thing, carved long ago, but they suppose its age does not impact its usefulness, so long as it is not damaged. It’s easier for them to walk with it in hand, rather than float, so with their feet planted firmly on the floor below, they sweep the tray into their arms, feeling its loaded weight bearing on their chest. 

Still attempting to maintain the balance, Irin’s steps towards the kitchen door- and therefore Magdalene- are slow, each one a deliberate calculation. Opening the door, however, does not prove to be a challenge, unlocked as it is, requiring only the slightest amount of physical manipulation. As they enter, feeling the welcoming soft moss underneath their feet, as if beckoning them back to the heart of their home, they spot Magdalene, still nestled in the middle of the moss-patch. 

For the first moment, Magdalene says nothing. Irin supposes that they must have been too gentle with the opening of the door- even if, in their mind, they were much too loud and clumsy about the entire affair. 

So they wait, tray in hand.

It’s only when Irin gets impatient, for lack of better words, that they look  _ closer _ , and recognize that Magdalene’s eyes are completely shut. 

Tenderly, they set the tray of hot tea down onto the moss floor, and take further steps towards Magdalene’s presence. In the stillness, Irin notices the slight rise and fall of her body, the way her body shifts underneath the cloaking of her robes. To see someone rest like this- it’s an  _ odd _ sight, at least for Irin. Even if Guardian Sprites did not lack the need to sleep on a regular basis, only when necessary in recuperating from illness and injuries, it is not as if they could watch themself sleep during the act. Nor did they have reason to watch anyone else sleep- in any other instance, something like this, almost a _ privilege _ , would be nothing short of inappropriate. But Magdalene’s body, its strange aspects,  _ entrances _ them, if only for a moment. 

Eventually, though not until the conclusion of a short period of contemplation, they realize with a rather pointed embarrassment that Magdalene still needs to be awoken.

Irin’s eyes snap away from the meditative stillness they’ve lulled themselves into, having subconsciously kneeled down and drawn closer. Instead of the closeness of their gaze, Irin places a single gentle hand on Magdalene’s exposed shoulder, trying their very best to  _ not _ think about the bristling of the fur, the even heartbeat and pulse of the warm-blooded creature taking its sleep in this empty home- 

“...Irin?”

_ Ah _ . 

Magdalene’s once-still eyelids flutter open, gentle, shuddering at the sudden intake of natural light. Irin feels her breath rise and fall with more intensity as she awakens, heart beating faster, and they push down once more the strange upswell of emotions linked to that fact. Instead, they remove their hand from where it laid, placing it instead on the ground beneath. 

“Magdalene,” Irin splutters, unprepared to speak, “I’ve made you something to drink.”

There’s no response from Magdalene- not for a minute, at least. As far as Irin can tell, she’s still getting her bearings back, faced by the still-strange environment surrounding her. Only after she’s able to adjust the folds of her clothes, rumpled by sleep, does she acknowledge Irin’s presence once more. 

“Thank you.” Her voice is soft, sleep-heady and slightly hoarse, and she yawns after pushing the words from her mouth. 

She sounds nothing short of  _ exhausted _ , and Irin can’t help feeling rather sorry for waking her up. 

“I apologize for awakening you.” Irin murmurs, careful to not make an excess of noise. “I assumed you’d prefer to drink the tea while it’s hot, but I was perhaps being presumptu-”

“No.” Magdalene sighs out, cutting off Irin’s nervous apology. Comforted, Irin stops their subconscious wringing of hands- a nervous habit of theirs, one they’ve never been good at realizing they’re indulging until it’s too late. “I appreciate it, Irin.”

“...I am glad.” 

It’s a brief statement, but Irin isn’t sure what else can be said. Indeed, as Magdalene once more shifts herself back onto her haunches from the curled-up position she had assumed, it seems that there’s very little else worth mentioning. Still, Irin averts their eyes from the steady shift of Magdalene’s frame. It’s been a long time since they’ve entertained a guest like this, and what exactly is appropriate has been somewhat lost to them. 

Their new focus- on the greenhouse ceiling above, how the unceasing rain blankets it with a dull, clear roar- is disrupted, however, by Magdalene’s still-unsteady voice. 

“Could you point me towards that tea, if it’s still around?”   
  


Irin’s not entirely sure what she expects to have happened to it, but they don’t dwell on it. Instead, they lower their gaze, and gesture gently towards the wooden tray with the two mugs. They’re comforted by the realization that both are still expelling steam, that they haven’t dallied too long on the matter. It seems, too (at least to Irin), that the tray is equally satisfying to Magdalene, who regards the admittedly rudimentary setup with a rather charming wonder.

“You’re sweet, Irin.” Now-sitting, Magdalene substitutes getting onto their feet to reach the tray with shuffling over to it, only to survey the two drinks before selecting. 

“I’m assuming that the pumpkin-mug is yours- unless you’ve made me two mugs of tea.” The last part of Magdalene’s sentence is punctuated with a rather humorous candor, as if such a favour would be out of character for Irin. “It’s a rather charming thing, I’ll admit.”

In the moment that Magdalene calls the thing charming, Irin feels some strange instinct to claim it as their own, as if doing so could impress her. Still, they quickly disregard such thoughts as irrational, and shake their head gently.

“That one is for you. Though you may take your pick.”

“Ah.” Magdalene hums, tone suddenly softened. “Well, I have to thank you for finding something so charming. And for allowing me its use.”

Truthfully, Irin doesn’t quite  _ know _ how to say that they have a good few dozen mugs, the vast majority unused, and that if they put their heart into searching the piles of debris left behind by departing siblings then they’d almost certainly find something Magdalene would like better. Nor can they do much to explain the sudden instinct to do such a thing, this long-unattended task. 

So, they keep quiet. 

“I hoped that you’d like it.” Which- it’s not a  _ lie _ , and Irin is happy enough with that.

With a practiced, yet still rough-around-the-edges grace, Magdalene takes the rather goofy looking pumpkin mug into one hand, grip wrapped around the handle. Before taking a sip, or even testing the temperature, she takes in a long inhalation of the air surrounding the drink, and to Irin’s surprise, her eyes go much wider than they’ve ever seen before. 

“Is this-” Magdalene begins, but it’s a false start, and she composes herself before continuing. “Do you know where this particular brew is from?”

Irin shakes their head, and Magdalene’s eyelids droop, a sympathetic disappointment clear in her gaze. 

“Oh.” As if reconfirming her familiarity with the earthen scent, she takes another deep inhale of the steam still being released from the surface. “It’s familiar.” 

“Do you like it?” Irin inquires, catching themselves in the process of once more bringing their hands together to fumble and worry.

“It brings back fond memories.” 

Irin isn’t sure that really counts as an answer to their question- though they suppose bad tea does not a fond memory make, at least. Still, they don’t point it out. It’s pointless, anyway, once Magdalene raises the cup to her lips and takes an enduring sip of the murky liquid inside, pausing any potential voice. 

Instead, Irin looks at Magdalene expectantly, waiting for her verdict. 

“It’s just like I remember.” Magdalene quips once the mug is brought away from her, once she’s taken a drink of the brew Irin prepared for her. “You make it in such a similar way, too.”

“How?” Irin isn’t sure what  _ similar _ means, not in this context. But they can’t help but be curious- both about Magdalene and her sentiment. 

“ _ Hot _ .” Magdalene exhales, a grin on her face. “Still, I can’t blame you. You didn’t  _ insist _ I drink it so warm, after all.” 

“Did this other person do so…?”

“Yes,” Magdalene sighs, “though you mustn’t take that as a condemnation. I was rather easily goaded into it, after all.” 

“And this is the same tea? Which you shared with this individual?”

“Mm.” Magdalene contemplates the question for a few seconds, before sighing once more. “It’s not exactly the same. But it’s so close, that if I don’t pay too much attention- why, it’s like I’m a young girl again.”

The thought of Magdalene as a young girl is rather novel for Irin, and though they do their best not to show it on their face, it does take them aback somewhat. As far as they’re concerned, Magdalene has always been an adult, though having grown rather considerably since their arrival. To imagine Magdalene’s youth, no doubt spent in some land Irin can’t risk visiting anymore- it’s strange, but Irin can’t deny they’re rather charmed by it.

Then again, they’ve been awfully charmed by a  _ lot  _ of things Magdalene does within very recent memory. So they put the thought out of their mind, supposing that it’s best not to indulge in such flights of fancy. 

“I’m-  _ glad _ , that you enjoy it.” The words come awkwardly out of Irin’s mouth, half-stammered and shaky. “I cannot say I knew it would evoke such emotions in you, however.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t know. I haven’t said much about my youth to you- or anyone, come to think about it.”

Irin’s eyes narrow, trying to ferret out any potential allusions to the subject in her speech. It’s when Magdalene spots Irin doing so that she laughs, mirthful and sweet, like music to Irin’s ears.

“I promise that it’s not some sordid tale, if you’re thinking along those lines. Admittedly, it was never the right fit for me.” She takes another sip of the tea, soothing the hoarseness of her throat, waiting for Irin to make some comment on the matter. When Irin says nothing in response, she continues unabated. “I can’t imagine you’d like it much, either. No greenery for miles- just rocks. You don’t seem like the type for rocks.” 

_ Does she mean the mines? _

Irin has never visited, of course, but they  _ know _ of them, the small quarter of the world nestled in the bough of nearby mountains- 

“Your tea is getting cold, you know.”

The words from Magdalene’s mouth once more disrupt Irin’s train of thought, and without a real knowledge of what they’re agreeing with, they nod. To appease Magdalene, they take the other mug in hand- still, they don’t drink from it. 

Magdalene continues, as if she’d never pointed out the inattention Irin was paying to their own drink. 

“Which, of course, makes me wonder why you have some tea from there. Unless it’s popular elsewhere- I couldn’t say. But I haven’t seen it here.”

Irin, too, has found nothing like this in the confines of Three’s Forest. Which means that, frankly, they’re not sure how to explain their ownership of the stuff. 

“I cannot say that I have, either.” Irin replies, truthfully. “I simply own a great deal of goods which have been brought to me by others. I do not make it a habit of depleting that supply.”

A sly smile spreads across Magdalene’s face, a clear sign of an idea brewing in her mind. “If you’re not using it, wouldn’t it be best to sell it on-” 

“No!”

Before Irin can even process the intensity with which they’d barked the rejection of Magdalene’s suggestion, they’re blind-sided by her recoil, the way she snaps backwards at Irin’s sudden outburst. By the time they’ve processed that the two things are connected, guilt begins to pool in their stomach, immediate and wretched. 

“...I’m sorry.”

To Irin’s relief, Magdalene does nothing but shrug, and take another sip of the tea. 

“I understand. I should have guessed you wouldn’t have liked the idea.”

Irin splutters, uneasy with the haste Magdalene gives them forgiveness. “You- I behaved-”

“Perhaps I think too much about money. Another hold-over from my childhood, maybe.”

Initially hoping to resume apologies, but stricken by the sincerity of Magdalene’s words, Irin says nothing, at least for a minute. It’s only when both of their breathing returns to normal that they dare to venture anything else. 

“Did you not have much?”

“Few of us did.” Magdalene mumbles. “I was fed, and clothed, and housed. My parents were as fond of me as they could have been, given my position as another hungry mouth to feed.”

“You had siblings?” Irin inquires, something strange humming in their heart. 

“No,” Magdalene clarifies, “but my grandparents were ailing. My parents took care of them- in some sense, I feel rather ashamed that I didn’t stick around to do the same for them.”

“Oh.” Irin isn’t sure whether what they’re feeling is disappointment, or happiness, or some strange mixed-blessing of both at once. “I imagine there are others to care for them.”

“That’s true.” Magdalene concedes. “To be honest, I hope that they’re enjoying life without me. I could be a brat.”

“Really?” Of all the things Irin has thought about Magdalene, both good and bad, they can’t remember  _ childishly petulant _ as being amongst them. 

“Yes. I have the feeling that you don’t believe me. But my problem was- well, that I always wanted more than they could give me. Not in gifts, or in food, or even in money. I felt that there should be something  _ else _ \- when they’d learned to be sufficient on what few things we  _ had _ .”

Something about such a conflict feels familiar to Irin. As if it were a familiar taste on their tongue, reignited by the remembrance of a scent from long ago, a voice- a face- flashes into their mind. 

_ Cecily _ .

“Eventually, I left. Both them, and my friends, so I could see what was out there.” Magdalene’s rumination continues unabated, though Irin’s attention is divided halfways, one part processing the familiar upswell of nostalgia for any sort of companionship. “Turns out that  _ this _ is what’s out there. More trees than I ever thought existed in this world, all  _ much, much _ bigger than I’d assumed them to be when I saw them from afar. Quarreling witches- whatever Trout is- and  _ you _ .”

Magdalene’s gaze tracks over to Irin, their expression pensive, eyes dazedly focusing on the soft patterns of the moss beneath them.

“You’re not that bad,” Magdalene clarifies. “I know we’ve had our quarrels. But you’re not ill-intentioned. Even if you are strange- you’re strange just like me.”

When Irin doesn’t respond, Magdalene’s expression grows equally pensive, albeit with a greater tinge of concern.

“I apologize if I’ve been too untoward-”

“No,” Irin murmurs, only half-focusing on Magdalene’s words. “You have not done anything to insult me.”

“Oh.”

“I was- thinking. About what you were saying.” Irin sighs. “Perhaps I was thinking too hard, or too much. But I thought- for a moment- that I understood something.”

“What is it?”

“You. Taking the sprites from the forest.” Irin murmurs. “For a long time, I struggled to imagine you acting out of anything but malice. Because I could not conceive of doing what you did, my assumption was of your ill-will. But you, too, acted according to what was sensible.” 

Magdalene’s expression softens, and her eyes fill with a gentle understanding. 

“You saw the chance for many others to realize what you had struggled to achieve.”

“Perhaps.” Magdalene mutters. “I don’t know if I’ve ever really thought too hard about why  _ I _ might want to do it. Just that it seemed like something which must be done.”

“Maybe my words are too presumptuous.”

“No. I understand. If anything, I’m a little shocked that it occurred to you before I ever thought of it myself- I don’t mean to imply you wouldn’t have, but-”

“It is okay. We are-  _ different _ . We think differently.” 

Irin pauses for a moment, hesitating, as Magdalene looks on expectantly. 

“I would hope that we are able to come to some compromise between us. It would likely be better for the forest, if two people acted in its best interest…”

“I see what you mean.”

Truthfully, Irin isn’t sure if the witches act out of malice, either. Well, they’re fairly sure on the matter of Glume- Mycel and Barclay notwithstanding. But they present no shortage of problems, and to know that Magdalene might come into collaboration with them on such dilemmas does fill Irin with a warm sensation, akin to being slowly dried by the roar of a fire.

“It would be easier to get started on these things,” Irin grumbles, “if the weather wasn’t so poor outside.”   
  


To their surprise, Magdalene lifts the arm that they don’t have wrapped around the handle of a mug, and pats them gently on the shoulder.

“You’re being hasty, Irin. If you think like that, you’ll never finish this tea.” As if to punctuate the matter, Magdalene takes another sip from her own mug. “It’s quite good.”

_ I’m glad she enjoys it _ , Irin thinks.

“I suppose you’re right.” After hesitating a few moments, Irin bends down to pick the mug from where they rested it, drawing it towards their mouth once more. With the steam dissipated, they suppose it must be cool enough to sip from, at the very least, so they raise the vessel close to their mouth and drink in the tiniest drop.

It’s a strong flavour, undoubtedly. Irin is sure that stronger exists, but not that they’ve had the privilege of tasting it. It also tastes less natural than many of the blends they’ve experienced before, with a vague, mineralistic feeling attached. Still, it’s not unpleasant, and it’s at a good drinking temperature, so they take another drink from the mug. It’s more eager, this time, and Magdalene watches on with approval. 

“I was worried you wouldn’t like it. These things are best for the people who work long hours in dark places.”

“How so?”

“It is not solely tea leaves,” Magdalene explains, “but mineral extracts, which are intended to prevent injury. That, and small doses of a rare plant which is supposed to provide greater energy to the body.”

“People must do demanding work where you’re from.” 

“That’s true. But, then again, it is not like your work, or Trout’s work, is much easier. But I find things are easier when you are underneath the open sky.”

“You were not?”

Magdalene shakes her head, gentle. “No. For much of my early life, I was underneath the earth. I neve quite tire of these beautiful places above it.”

“You should say something like that to the witches.” Irin’s words come out with a dark chuckle. “None of them can appreciate things which are left untouched.”

“That is true,” Magdalene ponders, “and I can’t help but wonder if they’ll ever learn to appreciate the forest in its natural state. You must have seen it be even more wonderful, Irin.”

“...Yes.” The premise of the question startles them, proposing the idea that there’s a forest of the past and a forest of now. Still, it’s not as if they haven’t felt the same way many times. “I remember during the forest’s peak, everything was lush and fertile. Nothing was choked by the darkness of the vines, nor did flowers intrude on the arable land. People farmed, and foraged, wherever they could. Each plant, and each being, had its place.”

“The witches-”

Irin shakes their head, somber. “They were not the first to disturb this place. Strange changes in the world began to influence the forest, and a great many of its residents left. Including those who tied the health of the forest to their very being. Such a state only enabled the witches- but they have perhaps made it so there is little we can do on the matter.”

“If we were to try?”

“...I do not know. I have been trying- but I have been failing just as much.”

“You’ve been trying on your own, Irin.” Magdalene points out, her voice soft. “I’d be happy to work with you to bring life back to the forest. There isn’t much else I could ask for, really.”

For a moment, Irin stares at Magdalene, fixing their gaze on her kind expression. Their expression turns firm, and foreboding, brimming with barely-concealed hostility. Their lips curl back, exposing two sharp fangs placed prominently on their upper jaw. A primal hiss emerges from the back of their throat, fierce and spitting. 

Magdalene grins. 

“A display of hostility. To see if I trust you- if I really mean it. That I’m not coming close to you just to hurt you” 

She puts the mug down onto the tray, freeing both of her hands, and without hesitation, she presents them both to Irin, still baring their fangs.

“If you really want, you can bite me.” Despite the situation, Magdalene’s tone is almost  _ chipper _ , as if nothing of the current situation means much to her at all. “But- I know you don’t want to.”

Irin’s expression falters, though only for a second. 

“You’re afraid. But you don’t have to be.”

In that moment, Magdalene raises her arm, and places it comfortably on Irin’s shoulder. 

True to her statement, Irin’s fangs retract back into their gums, no longer on display. Their eyes, too, empty of their faux-hatred, their estimation of a hunting display. At the sight of it, Magdalene giggles. 

“You don’t make a convincingly frightening monster, Irin. No amount of hissing will erase this  _ lovely _ tea you’ve made us both. Nor how kind you’ve been to me- despite everything.”

“...I apologize for my outburst.” Irin mutters, returning back to their regular position. “I felt as if I should test you. Such is the way of the past” 

Magdalene snorts. “I don’t mind. Do what you need to do. And- while you’re not scary like that- you are rather attention-grabbing.”

“...Truly?” 

“If we were to gather in the shadows,” Magdalene proposes, “we could certainly give Barclay a fright. Perhaps even Glume.”

“What about Mycel?” Irin inquires. 

“I don’t know if we could frighten her,” Magdalene mumbles, “but we might be able to drag her out of a dream with the arrival of a handsome, sharp-fanged suitor.”

“ _ H-handsome? _ ” Irin feels like they’re choking on the word as they say it, unsuited as it is to their mouth. “I have the feeling you’re exaggerating-” 

“Perhaps you’re not for everyone. But you’re easier on the eyes than some folk I’ve met.”

“You’re flattering me.” Irin objects, stubborn, but with greenish splotches of chlorophyll flooding their cheeks. When they look over at Magdalene, the same phenomenon is obvious- except for where the warm, red blood of a mammal replaces the leaf-green tint showing through the skin and fur that blankets her face. 

“Maybe.” It’s a curt answer on Magdalene’s part, but Irin doubts they’ll get much else out of her. “Someone has to.”

In the corner of Irin’s eye, they see one of Magdalene’s fingers tracing a thin film of dust away from the pumpkin-shaped mug, sweeping it into the air. Without complaint, she brings the mug once more to her mouth, drinking deep from the now-cooling tea. Irin decides to keep hush on the subject, though the sight of it embarrasses them.

_ She must know, _ Irin realizes,  _ that it’s been such a long time _ . Indeed, their own mug is equally dusty, its coating only disturbed where Irin has picked it up or set it down again. 

“I think the forest would be healthier, Irin,” Magdalene continues, unperturbed by Irin’s silence on the matter, “if you were a little less lonely. So you’ll have a hard time making me hush on the subject.”

_ If they were a little less lonely.  _

Irin supposes they could live with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading this far! i can't imagine the audience for this fic is huge, so i'd like to thank you for reading- it means a lot to me.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!


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